"collaborator" poems
Packed in
Van shifts
Tires spin
Band roams
Desert dome
Hippie echo
Violin outskirts
Nuisance collaborator
Car crash drunk
River rolls forward
Boat rolls on
Crocodile way
Locust love
Backwoods harmonica
Dead wasp windshield
Oil pipelines old Texas radio
Kentucky derby fashion show
Rock stars and movie actors
Young kids and rock gods
Music recorded on the road
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:04 AM UTC
My unseen, poetic collaborator, talent extraordinaire.
She writes of the homeless man we pass on the street,
to which I add a word, a line or two, for who among us has never once wondered, there but for the grace of god, go you or I....
a tin cup, a beat up guitar
memories, all sepia colored,
little of his older life,
the few days left,
close by, not far,
the remains of the day,
he calls them,
his ha ha, happily ever after.
once he thought maybe after
the next song, he'll belong,
for his melody sung
in the key of despair,
but the refrain, sung with flair,
après la guerre,
ever hopeful, ever after
no passerby fails to stop,
penny or dollar, each produces,
his voice, so sad, seduces
each fearful of the sound,
but comforted by his
last words, that stick
to them, ever after.
yet, he's happy, he has a voice,
cold concrete beneath his extremities
reminds him of his lost choices,
a life begun, flowing with expectancies,
soon expected to conclude, yet,
he does not complain of life's inequities.
no matter what the tune,
no matter what the key,
no matter what the rhythm,
no matter what the beat,
his every song always ends
with words of no mean feat.
He sings:
**tho bad luck, poor choices
have brought me to
a life upon the ground,
yet I wake each morn,
kiss my stony bed,
for I am happy for,
just to be alive,
always happy, ever after.**
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
Beneath the world of expectation
above the Hells of Satan’s lair
a body lies in mortification
and no one knows that it is there.
A ****** on a frosty evening
of lovely girl with sprightly nature
who’s only sin was of receiving
with evils own collaborator.
Innocence was wholly shattered,
deflowered just for being there,
her body beaten and so battered
and left there dead with just her stare.
Terrified, transfixed, still staring
in that direction from where it came.
A beast so vicious and uncaring,
who treated her with so much shame.
There was no offer of protection,
there was no one to lend a hand.
Just he who caused her such dejection.
Just he who placed her 'neath the land.
This girl of lovely disposition
never had time to say farewell,
was never found by expedition,
just left to rot and left to smell.
She missed a life of exploration
that night he took her life so ill.
Encircled now in forestation
beneath the soil of old land fill.
Her family sought, indeed, still seeking
in hope one day she may be found
and from her grave her soul is speaking
to all who walk above the ground.
One day she may receive response
by someone sensitive to call
someone who walks with such a nuance
that she may indeed perhaps enthral.
But until that time she lies beneath,
between the World and Satan’s lair.
Waiting for that one relief,
that all should know and all might care.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Sometimes it seems to me that your ultimate goal is to see me broken.
You sit in your chair and twiddle my hearts strings between your fingers.
You strum my chords until the melody becomes too similar to your own.
Then you knot each of my hearts strings up individually,
Leaving me strung.
Only so you can start all over.
You learn me just to forget me.
Lead me just to leave me.
I'm a game that you love to play.
But only when you haven't smiled a genuine smile for a while.
I make you happy and nervous at the same time.
Cause everyone knows that a sweet hello births the most bitter goodbye.
So when it feels too real, it's too easy for you to run.
In the meantime you just walk the line.
You reside on the equator of my past and future.
And my resistance only assists your thrive.
You are the factor which brings life to my smile.
You are the crease in between my cheek and the corner of my mouth.
Every breathe I take while with you amplifies my high.
I hate you, but I love how you make me feel.
But only sometimes.
You are a wound that will never heal completely.
Marking me imperfectly beautiful. You are my creative collaborator.
Forever infected by your loves venom.
Therefore I bleed thee.
But, we don't relate anymore.
Our pitters don't patter on beat anymore.
Our paths don't meet anymore.
It seems like your hearts not even in reach anymore.
I figure to leave is the only way to settle the score.
But you've packed my bags and you opended the door.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
I threw the backpack down
shattering the 13$ jug of wine
I lifted it and saw all my precious lifeblood
oozing out the bottom.
pouting down
two blocks like a child before
pouring the clot of broken
glass is the street.
bad relationship.
put my fist into a metal
sign, ripping up my arm
dropped my wallet losing
100$ to the gods of failure,
dropped a bag of beer causing
one to rupture and spray all over the apartment.
when I find a piano I clang
on the keys til everybody has
a migraine, myself included.
it's a light form of
sadomasochism.
I do the same thing with
women,
and they prove to be better
players.
slipping around in sheets
with somebody else
a sultry look on your
face like a saxophone solo.
light a cigarette and immediately
break it
drop my new phone in a cup
of wine
rip somebody's door of its
hinges.
meditation is foreplay of life
you gotta lick the ****
be the last one with
your shirt off
last one to the finish line
the last to fall asleep
the first to wake on
the 76th hangover this year
so far
so long
too bad
who cares
eat my ***** while I
shove a ******** in my ***
like the queen of France on
a ******
you can lead a camel to
water but the **** thing
still can't play an
oboe for ****
satan sold me a *** music
box
so if you see him tell
him I got pictures his wife
******* my **** in tumblr
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
At least you have a shred of a conscience, but you don't know what you've become.
You think you are my friend.
When do we go out?
It's too late for the drink you suddenly asked me about.
People may lie, but feelings never lie still, and when they can't be expressed
people move: eyes twitch, faster, quicker, chasing someone down who has no business knowing
anything about this
Your collaborator doesn't feel guilty, though.
He's only afraid of being caught, ensnared
Really, he should have thought about it first
No one is supposed to be told when you are fired, so you are not supposed to
arrange for the new guy to come in and check out his new digs when you are being fired
when you are in the hell room, with the devil men, the stupid little vicious savages,
who can't make eye contact with me as they wrinkle their nose like an elephant skin and say
"it's not a good fit." I laugh now.
Not a good fit. I'm sure, because they're all too small.
And I'd never let them try to fit themselves into me anyway.
Pond **** is not a good lover, or even a slimey frog.
Alas, the damsel, she doesn't want to pay for her sins so the energy
the unexpressed emotion, makes her scurry
the little princess, who has done the nasty deeds, scurries
Around and around, making herself look silly
and guilty, so guilty.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
in word play, let me confess
i am so enthusiastic,
perhaps a bit beyond the limits too,
but every time i attempt that,
words start to play between themselves
making me just a collaborator,
quite curious!
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
.
you're at the front door
you're in through the front door my door
without knocking
face flushed with malice and ****** visions
"uh-huh" i say
there's a cotten shopping bag
of who-fears-what in one mitt
and you throw yourself
on my sunken couch
you unzip those mad pricy leather boots
with flames down the sides
and clutch your bag to your chest
with meaning and taunt
leaning toward
a smile crocodiles your face
your clock ; three forty seven
your mind ; immersed in some midnight woo
a witching verse and a fortune boastful and blue
am i to be involved in your clockwork mockery ?
(i have been your collaborator
and coal mine canary in the past)
do i even want to be invited ?
i don't know any better i am as always excited
"alright, i'll bite .. what's in the bag ?" i say
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 5:47 PM UTC
I am a deeply flawed collaborator
Looking back at the past
In old photographs
I catch a glimpse of
Someone I once loved
And my stomach churns
With an acidic burn
That crawls up my gut
She is a smiling memory
In cliché haunting me
Not dead but not who
She used to be
Fourteen years ago
I wrote her poetry
To express what she meant to me
But she had to leave
To join the military
In one of those silly vows
We promised to be together
If we were still single
When we were thirty or forty
She has probably forgotten that
The white navy hat
The uniform of black
If I could go back
I would not
But to be honest
The loves we lose
Will probably always
Haunt us
But it sure makes
For good poems
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
Eli had no reason to hang around
while the band shaved their skulls
& went full-tilt Nihilism, singing
about nothing at all. Normally
immune to Strychnine, Jane was
spontaneously bleeding from the
face; seeing his opportunity, Ivan
pulled her onto the stage.
Thereupon the crowd erupted in
furious moshing;
The Band revisited DEAD POWER,
played Brutal Church & songs from
the ***** Tour, encore after encore
while Jane was brought to the Hosp.
Knowing Eli Simple was a known
collaborator with the riotous band,
the Russian Police, informed that Eli
had flown to Montenegro, the police
tried to extort a bribe from the
feckless poet-musicians; It was Ivan
who suggested a Benefit Concert for
the police. Of course, everyone
agreed. Instead of shutting the band
down they were plugged into the City's
power grid & blacked out Eurasia ...
The morning sun returning sleepily
to the gilded old city, no arrests had
been reported the entire night; all brawls
broken out in the spirit of jocular fun,
black eyes & bruises notwithstanding.
Jane was the talk of the town: "Like an
American Horror Movie!" they said.
Chuckie's stick figure had been fitted
into a red bikini & she sat smiling,
tanked up on coffee in the day room.
Eli handed her his glass of whisky &
lita cigarette. The head housekeeper
also greeted the man of the house
with a hearty smile; "Oh, MIster
Simple, I am so happy you brought
home Miss Arzhaiana. My gransparants
are Chukchi." The newlyweds took
turns drinking from the glass.
Chuckie was already thirsty & Eli
inevitably bored. The News was filled
with multiple contradictory reports
of the St. Petersburg Policeman's
Benevolence Society Fundraiser,
which raised no money but the city's
overall morale was greatly improved.
Every citizen had an unflinching
grin on their face, as if overnight
they'd been purged of the vilest
demons of their country's centuries
of violent repression & persecution.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
Aim, shoot, wind
Aim, shoot, wind
Don’t think, deliberate, contemplate
Aim, shoot, wind
Record, Report, Inform
Aim, shoot, wind
Conspirator? Collaborator? Messenger!
Aim, shoot, wind
Uncover, Reveal, Expose
Aim, shoot, wind
Who are you to judge?
You once silent ******
My pictures upset your silent thoughts
Disturbed your peaceful ignorance
Oh if only you could unsee the seen
And the Messenger be ******
Return to self-imposed oblivion
Don’t look, don’t see, don’t know
Aim, shoot, wind
Aim, shoot, wind
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC
Collaborate with Society, By Chris.
In the world of our benefactors or such, others calling
Others collaborators. As if such a term were,
Shameful.
I ask you, what greater endeavor exists than
That of collaboration?
For example in our current unparalleled enterprise
Refusal to collaborate is simply a refusal to grow
Which some insistence on suicide if you will.
Did the lungfish refuse to breathe air?
It did not,
It crept forth boldly while its brethren
remained in the
Blackest ocean abyss.
With lidless eye forever staring at the dark.
Ignorant, is it not? Doomed despite their
internal vigilance.
Would we model ourselves on the
trilobite?
Would that mean all accomplishments of
humanity
Could fade, nothing more than a layer of
broken,
Plastic shards, thinly strewn across a fossil
Bed, sandwiched between a burgess shell, and
Eons worth of mud? In order to
Be true to our nature and our destiny, we must aspire
to
Greater things we have outgrown our cradle.
It is feudal to cry for mother’s milk when our true
sustenance
Await us, Among the stars! Therefore I say yes! I am
a collaborator! We all must collaborate, willingly, eagerly, if we
expect to
Reap the benefits of unification. And reap we shall! Civic
deeds do not go unrewarded, and contrary wise complicity
with people's cause will
Not go unpunished. So please, be wise… Be safe, be aware.
We have plunged humanity into free-fall...
Now, is the moment to redeem ourselves.
© Chris .B 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
In 2013 I lost a friend, soul brother and collaborator. He is the John in the titles that say written with John. Over the next few months another poet and I collected as much of his work as we could and put it in an anthology as a sort of living memorial.
https://www.createspace.com/4939401
I would be glad to email the pdf to anyone that is interested.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
Brothers in War
Why did the two brothers fight one another?
In opposing armies on the same battlefield
Because one was Latvian and the other Russian
Both had the same father but different mothers
The Latvian one welcomed the Nazis when they came
For he was fascist and hated communists
He collaborated and was happy for a few short years
Till fortunes of war made the Soviets come
The Nazis left after battling the new Soviet occupiers
The Latvian bro knew what would happen so was ready
He fought the Soviet invaders with his Mauser rifle
Killing many but eventually being cornered in a village
There were informers about and the Soviets knew
With no escape he vowed to never surrender
The Russians sent his Russian brother to **** him
There was no negotiation for he was a collaborator
His bro tried to flush him out with machine gun fire
And then with accurate rifle shots hoping for a headshot
The Latvian bro had two shots left including one for him
When his chance was there he took it and fired
The Russian bro was a loyal communist and wanted promotion
But he slipped up in his zeal and got nailed by his bro
Who then blew his own ******* head off with his big toe
Thus died two brothers on opposing sides and ideologies
Now forgotten by all except the ghosts
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:25 AM UTC
Capture me underneath the sunset.
Straw hat in hand, smile genuine.
Painted across my cheeks.
Paint me deep,
BLUE.
A darker hue.
Anything but bleak.
I became obsolete when I began to think
that this picture could never be painted.
My visualization became tainted.
But whenever I'm the artist my image
has the potential to be beautiful.
But my beauty bounces off the walls of a cubicle.
I need a creative collaborator.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
he snarled at me
accusation embedded into each word
I thought I knew you
I thought I could trust you
but you're nothing like I thought
how can you bear to live with yourself
how can you not feel sick
- collaborator!
he expelled that last word
as if he would be the one to *****
you gave in
while the rest of us struggled on
you gave in
we thought you were with us
but all along you had betrayed us
you betrayed yourself
you didn't write that alone
you had a partner
didn't you!
didn't you!
I paused
not sure how to respond
it was true
I couldn't deny it
I had stopped working alone
I had
- collaborated
I had fallen in step with another writer
and it had felt
great
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC